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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29228589">Breathe</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel1211/pseuds/darkangel1211'>darkangel1211</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Dark Before Dawn [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Heavily Implied ‘I love you’, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Riding, Romance, Slight Pain Kink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:40:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,890</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29228589</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkangel1211/pseuds/darkangel1211</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian watches as the spy makes it to the Inner Circle, motioning quickly with his hands and speaking in rapid, hushed tones; a word leaves him breathless and shaking, his blood thundering through his ears and eclipsing everything around him as he replays the movement of Cassandra’s mouth as she’d questioned the spy. </p><p>“Alive?”</p><p>(AKA, the reunion between our Tevinter mage and his Inquisitor, post Haven).</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Dark Before Dawn [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/385624</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Breathe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A/N:</p><p>It turns out that going through one’s own archives is a good way to be led back to unfinished works, including this one. I’m happy to say it’s competed now because this is one storyline I’ve been thinking about for a long time. </p><p>I’ve tried to keep the guys as IC as possible, although a lot can change in five years. Please let me know if you encounter any errors and I’ll update them. </p><p>Enjoy! Xxx</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The mug of tea pressed into his hands isn’t a leaf Dorian recognises; it’s dark and bitter (of course they didn’t add honey), but the heat on its own prompts him to drink it in quick gulps, the liquid warming his insides even as he resists the urge to cough against the foul aftertaste. It’s a fitting drink, he thinks, considering how closely his mood matches it. He refills his cup with the brew, wrapping his chilled fingers around it to try and keep them warm against the remnants of the storm blowing around them.</p><p>“Easy, Sparkler,” Varric says from his side, nodding towards Dorian’s cup. “There’s plenty more where that came from.” </p><p>Dorian scoffs, taking another sip of the cooling tea. “Why am I not surprised?”</p><p>Varric chuckles, but it sounds too forced to Dorian’s ears. The mage isn’t surprised by this either. Everyone’s only thinking of one thing and Dorian is trying his hardest to wipe the last few hours from his memory, glad for the small diversion the dwarf is providing. </p><p>“So… You and Lavellan, eh?”</p><p>Dorian barely stops himself from flinching, taking another sip of his tea. Hidden away inside his robes, the snipping of Feredir’s hair is soft against his skin and warmed by his body heat; the mage resists the urge to check it’s still there, his fingers tightening on the metal of his cup. </p><p>The mage glances at the dwarf out of courtesy, his mouth twisting in a frown at the teasing lilt to Varric’s voice. “And where did you hear such a vicious rumour?” he asks, hoping the sudden churning in his stomach isn’t showing on his face. They’ve just escaped a fight to the death, leaving the Herald behind to face the Elder One alone, and people are already <em> gossiping?</em>    </p><p>“No rumours,” Varric says, “but I’ve seen enough stories to know what that face means.” He points at Dorian as though it’s meant to make perfect sense and audibly sighs when the mage doesn’t respond. “Look, I’m no expert, but we’ve got to trust that the Herald knew what he was doing.”</p><p>Dorian feels his eyes squeeze shut, his memory quick to remind him of the heated kiss he’d shared with the elf before Feredir had forcibly pushed them apart. If Dorian thinks about it hard enough, he can almost taste the sweet peppermint the Herald is – <em> was </em> - so fond of. “Sacrificing himself will do us a fat lot of good,” he says, taking another sip of tea and nearly grimacing when he realises it’s the last dregs of it at the bottom of the pot.</p><p>Varric chuckles at the expression on Dorian’s face. “It’s an unusual flavour, isn’t it?”</p><p>“It’s bloody awful,” the mage responds, putting his cup down near the fire. “I don’t know how you southerners can stomach it.” </p><p>“It doesn’t happen often, but the people here are good at making do with what they have,” Varric says, finishing his tea and putting his cup down next to Dorian’s. “Even if it is bad tea.” </p><p>A poised silence follows Varric’s words, both of them staring into the fire and trying not to remember the flames which had engulfed Haven barely a few hours ago. It’s sickening; they’ve lost so many people and Dorian can only bring one of them to mind. </p><p>The fire in front of them flares briefly, embers bright and snapping, and it’s only when the dwarf rests a hand on Dorian’s shoulder that the mage realises he’s the one causing it. His fingers ache from the cast, the tips burning with the magic in his veins and eating up the little wood they’ve managed to salvage to keep everyone warm. He cuts through the connection, feeling the magic recede until it’s bubbling beneath his skin and already tempting him to unleash it again, to give voice to the anger and frustration he feels at leaving Feredir behind and the helplessness that encompasses it all. </p><p>The fire returns to its former size, the logs spitting and popping as the flames strain for their former glory, although it seems to burn a little brighter now. </p><p>Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking on Dorian’s part.  </p><p>“You’ll get your chance,” Varric says quietly to Dorian’s unspoken thoughts, withdrawing his hand once he feels Dorian has regained control. “Although, if Andraste is truly with us, the Elder One will have perished on that mountain and taken his demon army with him.”</p><p><em> At what cost? </em>Dorian thinks, but doesn’t say. Will never say, because the thought is intensely selfish and holds no respect for the people who have already laid down their lives so they could escape. </p><p>The sound of someone panting breaks through the noise of the storm, which is thankfully coming to an end, and Dorian looks up from the fire to watch as one of Leliana’s spies dashes through the snow towards the Herald’s Inner Circle. It’s not an unusual occurrence as Leliana’s network is prone to a bit of dashing, but the very energy the spy carries with him isn’t something Dorian has ever seen before. The man is nearly tripping over himself in his haste and Leliana has always taught them better than that. </p><p>He watches as the spy makes it to the Inner Circle, motioning quickly with his hands and speaking in rapid, hushed tones; Dorian can’t make any of it out, but he clearly sees Cassandra’s mouth drop open through the flecks of snow and her own reply; the word leaves him breathless and shaking, his blood thundering through his ears and eclipsing everything around him as he replays the movement of Cassandra’s mouth as she’d questioned the spy. </p><p>
  <em> “Alive?” </em>
</p><p>The Inner Circle are already on the move, their faces radiating the same focus they’d had fighting against the Elder One and his Arch demon. Dorian pushes himself to his feet and waits for them to pass as they head to the cliffs shielding the camp; there’s already a commotion spreading, words like ‘true’ and ‘unbelievable’ catching his attention for a split second as he trails behind Leliana. </p><p>In the distance, across the fields of endless snow, there’s a single, lone figure. </p><p>The moon is so bright it’s ridiculously easy to chart the passage of the stranger as they work their way towards the camp; Dorian finds himself already wading his way through the drifts ahead of the Culllen and Cassandra, breath gasping in his chest when the moon reflects off of a shock of white on the man’s head. Dorian doesn’t dare to believe, to hope, until he sees the now familiar tattoos, the man’s – <em> elf’s </em> – face twisted in pain as he holds one arm close to his chest, clutching it protectively as he struggles against the build-up of snow around his knees.  </p><p>Dorian’s already reaching for the Herald when the other man collapses, his arms gathering the elf close and easing them both to the ground. Feredir’s breath is shallow, too shallow, and his face grimaces in pain when Dorian’s arms pull him close in a strong embrace. “Careful,” the elf murmurs, reaching up to lightly brush a gloved fingertip across Dorian’s lips. </p><p>That gives Dorian pause, not just the word itself but the way it’s said, and he immediately begins to check Feredir for injuries, watching the elf’s face carefully. A sprained wrist on his right side and bruised ribs, possibly fractured, are the extent of Dorian’s expertise on the subject (healing has never been his strong point), but it’s not life threatening. Not yet. </p><p>The mage murmurs an apology for his roughness earlier, adjusting Feredir’s position in his lap and curling an arm under the Herald’s legs. “Hold onto me,” he says, lifting the elf with ease and trudging his way back to the Circle. Dorian barely stops himself from snarling at Cullen when the other man offers to take Feredir from him; he knows it’s a good idea (Cullen is so much stronger than him) but Feredir’s breath is warm on his neck, his weight a comforting acknowledgement that the blasted fool has actually returned to them. </p><p>The snow gradually recedes until it’s around his ankles once more, easing Dorian’s way as he almost marches his way towards the surgeon’s tents. A crowd has gathered around them now, but the Herald’s sudden reappearance hasn’t left his people reeling. The crowd shifts around them both, opening the way before them and closing behind them; Dorian fights against the urge to hide Feredir’s face from his fellow survivors, irrationally protective of the man in his arms.  </p><p>It feels almost wrong, somehow, for Feredir to be seen like this. He’s meant to appear strong and unbreakable to the people of the Inquisition, not…  </p><p>Not this. </p><p>Feredir would probably call Dorian an idiot for having such thoughts, but the man himself is in no position to argue.</p><p>By the time they reach the tents, Dorian’s hands are already glowing with green spirit magic, the rush of adrenaline overriding his complete lack of skill. The magic is weaving its way through Feredir’s body, easing small hurts and lessening some of the tightness on the elf’s face as Dorian lays him down on an empty cot. It’s only a moment before the remaining healers join him, their magic intertwining with Dorian’s until it reaches the point where their power exceeds his own. Even then, Dorian can’t bring himself to stop, allowing his magic to merge with the theirs so that they can use his power to aid in Feredir’s recovery. </p><p>Throughout it all, Feredir has the fingers of his uninjured hand hooked around the belt at Dorian’s waist. As though asking for him to stay, even if Dorian feels like he’s mostly in the way and the healers are just working around him. Ridiculous! The Maker himself couldn’t pry Dorian away from where he now sits. Should someone make the foolish attempt, they’re likely to leave the tent with a little more than just their clothes singed.</p><p>It’s only when Feredir’s lips twist with something that he supposes is a smile that Dorian realises he said the last bit out loud. Under his breath, mind you, but still loud enough for his patient to overhear. </p><p>“I was beginning to wonder where my snarky Tevinter mage had disappeared to,” Feredir remarks, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Knew he had to be in there somewhere...”</p><p>Dorian knows he should make a show of some sort, something quick and witty that would rival anything the Magisterium could even hope to offer, but his mind is still tripping over Feredir’s words. Not the snarky bit, that’s something he will address as soon as they are both alone, but the <em>my</em> bit. He’s Feredir’s snarky mage; it’s almost enough for him to forgive the insult, but not quite. </p><p>To be honest, he’s absolutely <em> furious </em> right now, although he doesn’t know if it’s because the elf before him is incredibly lucky (and incredibly stupid) or because Dorian feels like those words actually apply to himself.</p><p>“Hey.” Feredir’s hand moves from Dorian’s waist to push his index finger against the frown on the mage’s brow, smoothing it out with gentle strokes. “What’s going on inside that head of yours?”</p><p>Dorian huffs, capturing Feredir’s hand and pressing his lips to those fingers, still too cold for his liking. “Nothing that you’re unlikely to guess,” he gets out, allowing some of his magic to warm his hands, holding Feredir’s between them to drive the chill from his bones. </p><p>“I see,” the elf responds knowingly, his head dropping back down against the makeshift cot. “Well, that’s something we can talk about later, yes?”</p><p>The mage hums his agreement, his own relief a palpable thing when he sees Feredir’s body relax by increments, the restorative magic healing the ache in his ribs and his wrist until he’s nearly boneless on the cot. Dorian’s thoughts try to identify what ‘later’ might mean, considering the fact that they’ve lost at least half their forces in the battle at Haven, they have no place to go and are fleeing an enemy that is seemingly impossible to defeat. </p><p>“In fact, I’d say there are far more pressing concerns right now,” Feredir says, his voice stronger and less breathless than before. Dorian waits, expecting the other man to continue, until the elf fists his hand in Dorian’s robes and near enough yanks the mage half on top of him. </p><p>Any and all protests die quickly in the moment that Dorian feels Feredir’s lips pressed to his own, breathing in the frost-tainted scent of him. He wraps an arm around whatever bit of the elf is within reach as a sob wrenches its way out of his throat and into Feredir’s mouth. The Herald captures it with his lips and smoothes a hand through Dorian’s hair, using a gentle grip to keep them close together. </p><p>Dorian can’t bring himself to stop this either, even though the healers are still there, watching them, and the Inner Circle are waiting outside and the Elder One isn’t dead yet. He can taste the sweet peppermint on Feredir’s breath, the cracked dryness of his lips and, beyond that, the wetness of his mouth. It’s too much, too much, and still not enough, feeling the man in his arms, under his hands. It’s the scent in his nose, Feredir’s tongue in his mouth, drinking down the sounds Dorian can’t stop in time. </p><p>“You blasted fool,” he pants in the space between breaths. “You stupid, <em> stupid </em> man, you could’ve <em> died-” </em></p><p>Feredir soothes him, wrapping both arms around Dorian now, urging him into the narrow cot despite the fact that it was barely made for one person, let alone two. There’s movement behind him and Dorian realises the healers are leaving, possibly to tend to other patients, possibly to leave them alone after a pointed look from the Herald to give them some privacy.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Feredir says, pressing his lips close to Dorian’s ear so he feels the words as much as he hears them. “I’m so sorry, Dorian, I had no choice-”</p><p>Dorian smothers Feredir’s attempts to apologise, his attention solely focussed on memorising how their lips meet whilst ensuring that he doesn’t put too much pressure on the elf’s recently healed ribcage, balancing his weight on one arm. It doesn’t matter now. The apologies are heartfelt, sincere, but they’re less important than the man he has under his body, his warmth, his <em> aliveness</em>. </p><p>He knows that this moment won’t last. The world still rests on Feredir’s shoulders, perhaps even more now since his supposed resurrection, and the Elder One won’t stop until the world is enslaved or destroyed. But Dorian is selfish to his core and he stretches the moment out for as long as the world will let them, his fingers stroking across Feredir’s face and pushing his fringe out of his eyes. </p><p>A pointed clearing of a throat at the entrance of the tent is a mildly annoying disturbance, but it’s just as easily ignored in Dorian’s opinion, lowering his head so his face finds its way into the crook of Feredir’s neck, listening to the breaths the elf takes as the other man gently reciprocates.</p><p>“I know there’s such a thing as bad timing and all that,” Varric says consolingly, “but Cassandra looks like she’s about to implode so you guys might want to... finish up?”</p><p>Feredir sighs against Dorian’s cheek, squeezing his arms around Dorian’s shoulders for a moment before turning his head to face Varric. “Thank you, Varric,” he says, like the dwarf hasn’t committed the ultimate atrocity of interrupting their reunion for something as banal as <em> saving the world- </em></p><p>“Come on, Sparkler, let the man up for a second so he can lead the Inquisition and then you can get right back to it,” Varric quips. Dorian is half tempted to dump a whole pitcher of that awful tea over the dwarf’s head when he’s not looking, but he also knows that the other man is right. </p><p>He pushes himself up off the cot and stays by Feredir’s side, helping the elf sit up and running a hand through his hair again, now loose and disheveled from the snow and wind. Feredir looks up at him through his bangs and tries for a half shrug, only wincing briefly before moving to stand as well. This small attempt at humour does something funny to Dorian’s chest, makes it ache in ways he can’t say he’s experienced before, but then again, he’s having trouble remembering when Feredir hasn’t been able to do that to him. </p><p>Before he leaves at Varric’s quiet beckoning, Feredir catches Dorian’s hands in his own and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, pulling back only marginally so all Dorian can see is quicksilver. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmurs, his promise underlining the words. </p><p>Dorian nods, accepting that their reunion will have to be put on hold. That being said, he doesn’t resist the pull he feels now, using Feredir’s grip on his hands to tug him into a proper kiss, kept short out of necessity, but no less aflame than the ones shared earlier. “I’ll be waiting,” he replies, watching Feredir’s eyes darken in answer to Dorian’s own unspoken promise. </p><p>Promise or not, Feredir has never been one to back away from needs to be done, so he leaves after a firm squeeze of Dorian’s hands, exiting the tent without looking back. This is fine by the mage; they both know that, as soon as Feredir is done, they’ll seek each other out again. </p><p>oOo</p><p>Except that it’s not done, not by a long shot. Feredir’s way of greeting him again is less of a lover and more of a leader (Solas apparently has a destination for them in mind) and Dorian finds himself using his magic to help haul whatever equipment they’ve managed to salvage onto the carts. It’s an effort for their people, exhausted from their escape and some still sporting injuries which require more bed rest than circumstances will allow, but they manage it. Perhaps all that singing was good for something after all. </p><p>Skyhold is nothing like Dorian was expecting. It beats a tent in the Hinterlands by a huge stretch, but Dorian became used to a certain lifestyle at Haven, one which was more basic than the son of a Magister should ever have to suffer, so Skyhold itself is more than an upgrade. It’s like comparing a straw hut to Dorian’s mansion in Tevinter; at least Solas seems pleased with himself, but this doesn’t stop Dorian from giving the elven mage a wide berth. </p><p>It feels like no time has passed before the castle is bustling with people, transporting provisions to storage, setting up places for medicine and food once things have settled down. Dorian takes a special interest in the library and assists in carrying the books to their destination, exchanging the odd quip with Leliana as she sets up on the floor above him.  </p><p>Categorising the novels and shelving them by hand eats up the time in a pleasant enough manner and the Inquisition has more than enough books to keep a modest scholar like Dorian occupied for a lifetime. The distant caws of Leliana’s ravens do little to distract him from his task; the fluffing of wings and the shuffling sounds of paper and scrolls are almost enough to put a man at ease. Footfalls up the stairs are also quite common, so Dorian doesn’t pay them any mind until a pair of arms sneak their way around his waist. </p><p>“Sneaky rogue elves should know better than to try and take a citizen of Tevinter by surprise,” Dorian says, capturing the arms around his waist and using them to tug the other man closer to him, although there’s barely a hairs-breadth separating them at this point. </p><p>“Scholarly mages should know better than to become so engrossed in their dead trees that sneaky rogue elves have the opportunity to surprise them,” Feredir responds, using what little height he has to peer over Dorian’s shoulder. “What has captured your attention so much to allow this, I wonder.”</p><p>Dorian looks over to where Feredir has perched his head on Dorian’s shoulder and finds himself arrested by that damned quicksilver gaze again. All that white hair, left loose from its braid so it drops neatly down to the base of the elf’s spine, not a single strand out of place. The sharp nose, the strong but smooth jaw underlining narrow features, Maker’s Mercy, the whole damned package. Whoever Feredir’s parents are, he has half a mind to track them down and thank them on bended knee for creating such a fine specimen between them.</p><p>“Well, your Inquisition has arguably given me the most important task in the whole of Skyhold, not counting your esteemed self, in tracking down the origins of our mortal enemy, Corypheus.” He gestures to the books around them. “As you can see, I’m hardly short of materials.”</p><p>“Mmhmm.” Feredir makes a show of looking around at all the books and scrolls Dorian has amassed and nods. “Josephine is very good at using the resources at her disposal.” </p><p>Dorian scoffs at this. “Yes, I suppose so. Although you have remarkably little here on early Tevinter history.” He gestures to the shelves. “All these ‘gifts’ to the Inquisition, and the best they can do is the Malefica Imperio? Trite propaganda.” He turns to face Feredir properly, fixing him with what he thinks is a decent enough look of affront. “But if you want twenty volumes on whether Divine Galatea took a shit on Sunday, this is evidently the place to find it!” </p><p>“That’s the Dorian I know, critiquing every book in my library,” Feredir retorts, twining his arms around Dorian’s neck. </p><p>“I wouldn’t have to if you had more rebellious heretic archivists joining the cause.” Dorian pauses here, for dramatic effect. “Though that <em> would </em> usurp my position somewhat.” </p><p>Feredir chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “It’s a good thing then that your current position will never be put under such unnecessary stress,” he says, before he tightens his hold around Dorian’s shoulders and uses the leverage to nimbly hoist his weight up, wrapping his legs around the mage’s hips until they are pressed flush against each other. </p><p>Dorian catches the other man under his legs, his hands curling under those thighs, so lean and strong where they are clasped around him- </p><p>“I hope a change of position in the near future won’t put any additional strain on you,” the elf all but breathes into his ear, taking the opportunity to take the lobe of that same ear between his teeth and giving it a nibble, making Dorian gasp sharply before he remembers to stifle himself. The books will only hide so much and their resident spy master has eyes and ears <em> everywhere.</em></p><p>“I take it you’re feeling better now,” Dorian says, feeling the warmth of Feredir’s thighs under his hands, barely stifling a gasp when those clever lips and teeth move from his ear to his neck.</p><p>“A little bruised,” Feredir admits in a low voice, tightening his legs around the mage’s hips. “Nothing severe enough to deter me from my current goal.”</p><p>Dorian swears under his breath at a particularly sharp nip from the elf, wondering how his neck will look after Feredir has had his way. Wonders how he will find a rouge to match the necklace his dear Inquisitor is so adamantly giving him. “As much as I love the idea of carrying you to your quarter’s, my dear, tongues will wag if I take you through the main hall like this.”</p><p>“Tongues are already wagging,” Feredir retorts, although he does relent and drops his feet to the ground, making barely a sound on the stone. For all his lightness, Dorian already misses the weight of the other man in his arms. “Fine, I’ll acquiesce to your reasoning this time. On one condition.”</p><p>”Negotiating terms already?” Dorian raises one eyebrow. “And what would those be?”</p><p>Feredir takes his lips again and the mage likens the feeling to being devoured; it’s like the elf’s silver tongue is trying to steal his soul. “I want to hear everything,” the other man says, barely pulling back enough so Dorian feels the words against his mouth. “I don’t care how scandalised the castle is afterwards.” </p><p>Dorian feels his blood run hot at the words, that same heat pooling between his thighs and demanding friction. “In that, my dear Inquisitor, we are in absolute agreement.”</p><p>oOo</p><p>Somewhere between the door to Feredir’s quarters and the bed, Dorian manages to stub a toe and narrowly misses tripping over a rug, but he can hardly be blamed for his clumsiness when he’s busy pressing a certain elf against every bare piece of wall he sets his eyes on. Feredir hasn’t voiced any complaints over the treatment, twining a strong hand in the hair along Dorian’s nape and twisting his fingers through it, keeping the mage in place as Dorian makes his own mark on him. </p><p>They’ve hardly spoken a word to each other since Feredir’s terms had been agreed to and this is something Dorian is privately grateful for. This, the pounding of hearts and throbbing of cocks, this is something he understands. Vulgarity is his speciality and he wastes no time unleashing his talents on the Inquisitor, fingers making short work of the clothing separating skin and finding all those gloriously sensitive nerve endings until the man in his arms is moaning with abandon.</p><p>Feredir seizes one of Dorian’s wrists and presses that hand to the hardness between his legs, letting the mage feel how hot he is, how ready. “Fuck me,” the elf demands, pleads, begs, all one and the same thing to Dorian’s mind. He obeys the command nearly mindlessly, removing every last stitch of cloth from their bodies before steering the both of them to the oversized monstrosity of a bed and pulling Feredir down onto it. Even now, he’s still mindful of Feredir’s condition and pulls the other man against himself, using his own body to cushion their fall. </p><p>Feredir throws back his head and moans when their hips press flush together, rising up on his elbows as his legs push Dorian’s open and slots their cocks together. It’s a mess of tongues and teeth underneath the waterfall of Feredir’s hair as it slips around them, one long mass of white, until something catches Dorian’s eye. His fingers have already moved, deftly locating and pulling at one small section which has been cut near to the elf’s nape, just thick enough to twine into a braid and secure with ribbon. Time seems to stop in that small instant when Feredir meets his eyes, all half-lidded with lust, but the realisation cuts through it like a knife. Dorian’s mind has already transported him to that final parting in Haven, the feel of Feredir’s hair tight in his fist, one last parting gift before their enforced separation.</p><p>Slim fingers catch Dorian’s, gloves long abandoned, and tug them away from that physical reminder, bringing those same fingers to Feredir’s mouth. The elf maintains eye contact throughout, kissing at the mage’s fingers and letting his breath wash over them. “I’m here,” he murmurs quietly, pressing close until their breath is shared between them. “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.” </p><p>Dorian shuts his eyes briefly, slipping his hand from Feredir’s mouth to his nape, stroking through smooth hair and pressing his fingers rhythmically into the base of the other man’s skull. The memories flash behind his eyelids, those of blood and death and fire, the feeling of helplessness almost enough to kill his ardour. Feredir has stopped moving above him, the grind of hips slowing to a halt as he processes the shift of mood around them, and Dorian nearly hates himself for it. He doesn’t want to deal with this, the emotional fallout, has never been any good at this. Too jaded, too burnt by second chances and half truths. <br/>
<br/>
Feredir shifts his weight until one leg slips between Dorian’s own and then rolls them to one side, keeping close and urging Dorian into his neck, then lower still until his cheek is pressed to Feredir’s bared chest. The mage briefly wonders what Feredir is doing until the other man positions his head just so and then he understands. </p><p>
  <em>Thump thump... </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thump thump... </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thump thump... </em>
</p><p>Dorian briefly wonders how, on the Maker’s green earth, Feredir’s heartbeat is so slow, so relaxed, when his own feels like it’s trying to burst out of his own rib cage. The elf presses his lips to Dorian’s head, curling his arms around the width of the other man’s shoulders and urging Dorian to wrap his own arms around the waist in front of him. It takes some shuffling and Dorian is keenly aware of Feredir’s erection pressed against his body, still hard and slick at the tip, and suddenly it’s not just sex anymore.</p><p>Time shifts again, slows and then joins the rhythm of Feredir’s heartbeats; Dorian’s breath has slowed down too, he notices, but it’s a soft focus. Feredir remains silent, yet attentive, smoothing his fingers across Dorian’s skin and pressing into tense muscles. He doesn’t seem to be in any rush and Dorian is grateful for the reprieve, overwhelmed as he is right now. He still wants sex and he knows the man by his side wants that too, but this... this is too much. </p><p>Eventually, Dorian shifts his head to press a kiss to the place where Feredir’s heart beats, breathing in the scent of him. Feredir moves too and rolls Dorian into his back, pressing close again and resuming the slow grind of their hips. He’s surprised he hasn’t lost his hardness completely and the gentle rocking of the man above him coaxes him back to the place where pleasure threatens to overtake everything again. </p><p>Somewhere between Feredir’s insistent thrusts, a bottle materialises from underneath the mountain of pillows on the bed and is pressed into Dorian’s hands. Releasing the cap, Dorian immediately recognises the scent of essential oils infused with rose, coating his fingers liberally and sliding a wet trail down the length of Feredir’s spine. The elf purrs a low sound when Dorian’s fingers slide into the cleft of his arse, spreading the oil around and lightly circling and pressing against the entrance to his body. </p><p>“Gods, Dorian,” Feredir breathes, rocking back against the mage’s teasing touches and forward to stroke his erection against Dorian’s hip. </p><p>Dorian can’t resist it any longer and he moans when Feredir’s body clenches around his probing finger, remembering how it felt around his cock during that too short a night in Haven. It feels like an age has passed since their first time, but Feredir’s body remembers Dorian’s touch beautifully, leaning down to bite at the line of the mage’s jaw as a second finger is introduced.</p><p>“It’s enough,” the elf says after a moment, barely before Dorian has had a chance to stretch him around two fingers, but the hand curling and spreading oil around his cock blurs any protests he might have had. Feredir shifts and moves to straddle Dorian’s hips, removing his fingers and setting the head of Dorian’s cock at his entrance. </p><p><em>“Amatus,”</em> Dorian bites out and the other man slushes him, leaning down again to kiss him. </p><p>“It’s okay,” Feredir murmurs, “it’s okay, just breathe,” and all the while he’s the one pressing against Dorian, easing that thickness inside and wincing as the burning stretch takes hold. Dorian mutters a curse in Tevene as Feredir clenches around him, adjusting as he takes the mage’s length inside him. </p><p>They take it slow, giving each other a moment to savour the feeling of connection before they begin to move. The Inquisitor evidently feels like putting on a show and urges Dorian’s hands to explore as they wish, pinching and twisting Feredir’s nipples with one hand while the other settles around the erection arching from Feredir’s groin. Dorian begins to realise that that his partner may enjoy a little pain seasoned with his pleasure when one particularly hard pinch has the man almost growling something in the Elvish tongue before demanding that Dorian do it again, a command he is only too happy to oblige when it makes Feredir move <em>just like that...</em></p><p>All too soon, the insistent pressure starts curling in-between Dorian’s legs and he lays his feet flat on the bed, bending his knees and beginning to thrust up in the way he knows Feredir likes, intent on bringing the other man to completion before he finds his own. Feredir finds Dorian’s rhythm and follows it, adding a twist of his hips that leaves Dorian lightheaded with arousal. What began as something slow (something dangerous) has now morphed into the fucking the mage knows best, although it’s not the same as it was before. Not when he genuinely cares for the man currently riding him into the bedsheets and repeating his name as if it’s the only word in his head right now, like nothing else outside of this room exists. </p><p>Feredir starts to lose his rhythm as his climax approaches; Dorian can feel it as the clenching of his arse becomes more sporadic, tightening around him like a viper and encouraging Dorian to find his own release in the Inquisitor’s body. The steady slapping of skin soon joins the symphony of their voices as they fall off the edge together, Feredir taking Dorian as deep as possible as they ride out their pleasure. </p><p>Heedless of the mess streaked across Dorian’s body, even as far as his neck, Feredir almost collapses in a heap against his bedmate and curls close, panting his breath against the cooling sweat on the mage’s skin. “By the Gods,” he finally gets out, pressing kisses against the skin his mouth can reach.</p><p>Dorian mumbles an agreement and wraps his arms around his lover (is that what they are now?), almost relishing the mess they’ve made of each other while the feeling remains sharp and fresh. Before long, his catlike tendencies are going to demand a bath at some point but he figures Feredir’s tub definitely has enough room for two.</p><p>”You called me something earlier,” the elf says quietly, stirring against Dorian’s neck so the words are said against his jaw. “What was it again?”</p><p>The mage swallows against the instinctive lump in his throat, remembering the word, and for a moment he’s tempted to play it off as something said in the heat of sex, that it doesn’t really mean anything.</p><p>One look at Feredir’s form, sprawled out across him in all his glory, is enough to dispel that notion before it has a chance to come to fruition.</p><p>“You don’t need to say it,” Feredir says and his tone has that whole understanding thing going on again that makes Dorian wonder if he isn’t an open book or if the elf in question is actually a mind reader. “So long as we understand each other, <em>Ma’lath.</em>”</p><p>Dorian huffs a laugh at that, however small, and presses a kiss to the top of Feredir’s head, tightening his hold around the other man. “Of course, <em>Amatus</em>, we understand each other perfectly.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading! Xxx</p><p>Musical inspiration:<br/>‘Naked Tongues’ and ‘Desire’ by Perturbator</p><p>Translation Notes:<br/>Amatus - beloved<br/>Ma’lath - my love</p></blockquote></div></div>
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